


Bittersweet

by roraruu



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Healing, Pre-Canon, Tragedy of Duscur (Fire Emblem), Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roraruu/pseuds/roraruu
Summary: In the days that follow the tragedy of Duscur, Ingrid segregates herself from the world in her room. And by her door is Sylvain, ever ready to care for and love her and the tattered pieces that remain.A special upload for Sylvgrid week, day 7: free day.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> for sylvgrid week bc goddamn i love them. also there's a lot of... idkhow to phrase it but processing here on my part? i'm jewish and our rites and rituals for funerals are a lot different than most and ya girl has never been able to process death well. idk what else to say.  
> stay safe out there everyone.  
> as always, thanks for reading n everything y'all do ♥️♥️♥️

Mourners stop by the house to offer their thoughts and prayers for Glenn and for Ingrid in this time of need. __

_ A crying shame for a knight gone too soon.  _

_ He is gone to somewhere kinder, than this land of sorrow.  _

_ Sothis’s hand was forced.  _

Blame is thrown upon others, but never the hand that held the sword.

The days become a haze of handkerchiefs that are dabbed at softly eyes; a gossamer veil of black dresses and mourning veils and soft words that instil Sylvain with no comfort for Felix or Ingrid. Though he seems worried more by Ingrid who’s taken to holing herself up in her room. She doesn’t leave, not for the reception, nor planning of Glenn’s funeral. 

Dimitri is in a better state than her. Perhaps he has to be, as the last heir to the Faerghus throne and the sole survivour of Duscur’s tragedy. His face is the one that matters most to the people of this holy land. The Royal palace in Fhirdiad becomes a revolving door to mourners and politicians, knights and commoners in the daylight. But when night falls it morphs into a relic of the past, a symbol of what has fallen. And it’s velvet halls and warm wooden rooms are filled with the sounds of tears and wailing cries, muffled by silk hands and satin pillows.

Sylvain’s room is near to Ingrid’s. Every night he can hear her sobbing through the stone. He can hear her choking on her own tears, and when he thinks she has stopped, she begins again like a tide going back out to shore. It does not cease, even after the funeral for the royal family.

One occasion, she comes out of her room for a moment. Sylvain had seen her father sit at the door of her room, with an ornate chair pulled to. He had never seen Count Galatea look so ruined, not even with the fallow lands he inherited and the hundreds of hungry he must feed. His brow had furrowed, his hands clasping the door’s knob as he spoke softly, like a father and not a nobleman.

And that afternoon, Ingrid emerged from her den of night for King Lambert’s funeral.

No one sees her face, covered in a traditional black mourning veil meant for widows whose husbands are dear and departed. Even Sylvain can’t see her face, a childhood friend from her birth. She doesn’t look right, behaving like a bereaved widow before she was married. Still, he sticks by her side the entire afternoon, offering his handkerchief when he feels her tears wrack her body. She stays quiet, her silence is more painful and uncomfortable than anything else right now.

He wishes to rib her, to make her laugh with a poorly timed joke or word of hackneyed endearment. Even hearing her chastise him for flirting with a mourning lady of court would be better than sniffles and silence. But now is not the time for crass jokes or flirting with other girls, now is the time for stoicism, for honour and for kindness; things that he has little relationship with. 

Tables have turned. It is his turn to be the rock. The stoic being that Ingrid always was to him and Dimitri and Felix.

Sylvain stays by her side, making sure that no one upsets her. It’s a hard job, being idle beside her while she sits in an elegant, high black chair of velvet. Her back is slumped slightly and her hands clutching his handkerchief with white knuckles that shine through sheer black gloves. The veil faces downwards, to her knock-kneed legs; her pretty black mourning shoes face inwards, the toes touching the other’s. She looks broken, unlike the girl who chased after him and Felix with snowballs, demanding for them to stop acting like idiots.

Over the din of soft violins and lyres playing traditional music, just soft enough to fill the ache and void of death, Sylvain hears voices whisper.

_ Is that Glenn Fraldarius’s widow? Why are we just seeing her now? _

_ A tattered little thing. I hear her county’s facing another harsh winter. _

_ If she is to be a lady of court she should sit like one! The little scoundrel... _

_ Why is she not entertaining? A lady should always entertain and serve, no matter her mood! _

Sylvain stares at Ingrid, her fingers playing with the frills of the handkerchief as the comments rise and plump in his ears. More about how frail she looks; more about how she brings shame to House Galatea for truly  _ mourning _ ; more on how she should act while nursing a broken heart and soul. 

_ How could they?  _ He thinks as Ingrid’s head shifts towards the fireplace that flickers. He cannot see her face, but no doubt her bottom lip is pursed like it always does when she’s hurt; most certainly her brows are knit together too as they do by habit. 

How could they expect that when she’s mourning? This is the first time she’s left her room for days, the first time she’s swallowed back tears long enough to utter,  _ ‘how do you do? _ ’ to another lady in waiting and lie through her teeth.

About halfway through the afternoon, when food is served and the mourners clear for a moment, Ingrid gets up. There’s a sway in her footing, most definitely from the shoes; they’re heels and she is most used to thick riding boots or delicate slipper flats at the most. 

“Hey, hey...” Sylvain says softly, reaching for her. His arm catches the silk of her black dress, the fabric is gauzy in his grasp, almost see-through. It’s an old thing, probably her mother’s. “Where you going Ing? If you want food, I’ll get it for you, tell me what you want.”

“I need to use the bathroom.” She croaks. Her voice is still hoarse from crying. 

“Let me go with you.”

“It’s fine.” 

“Ingrid, allow me. Please.”

Her voice grows a little thinner. Dying winter sunlight burns through the large windows of the room, catching in the thin material of her veil, turning it from opaque to translucent. For a split second, he can see dark circles under her eyes and tracks of tears down her face. His heart quickens a little. She moves a little closer, reaching for his hand and clutching it tightly. Her grasp brings him back to reality.

“I’ll come back Sylvain, I promise.” She whispers. A promise made only to him. 

He swallows hard. “Okay. Go.” He murmurs. “I’ll get something to eat. You need to keep your strength up.”

Her head bobs in a nod, the veil swishing as she turns away. He catches a glimpse of her straw-coloured hair, hidden in a chignon du cou, under the veil. She slips out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

And when she’s gone, the Margrave approaches Sylvain, Miklan lingering nearby. He demanded to come along, for any ability to stir trouble. In a hushed tone, he snaps at Sylvain. “Couldn’t wait until the funeral is over?” Miklan jabs. 

Sylvain shoots him a glare, about to snap back at him. “I—“

“Your brother is right. She was Glenn Fraldarius’s fiancee.” The Margrave says evenly. He has a small plate of hors d’oeuvres in his hand; most certainly nipped from the refreshment table before the servants wheeled them out. Influence is everything after all. He passively glances around the paintings of the ballroom, where the reception is held. It’s the largest space to accommodate all the mourners.

Sylvain balks. “I’m not flirting with her, Father. She’s mourning, I just wanted to make sure she’s okay.” He protests. ”She’s a  _ friend _ .”

“People are talking about her. And you. Count Galatea will not take kindly to this—“

“Father—“

The Margrave leans close, his voice low and warning. His hand finds Sylvain’s shoulder, his elderly grip surprisingly tight.“I already spoke to the Count about an arrangement between the two of you, does that sate you?”

Miklan’s gaze narrows in shock. Sylvain’s heart catches in his chest. “ _ What? _ ” Their voices chime in unison.

The Margrave rolls his eyes. “I suggested a courtship between you and the Countess after this...  _ affair _ is finished. But he refused.”

“Why did you even ask?” Miklan barks.

The Margrave shoots daggers at him. He shakes his head, ignoring Miklan as if he isn’t there. His eyes fall upon Sylvain for a second. “I know that she is close to you, and her beauty is a sight to behold.” He explains, his eyes flickering elsewhere. He sips his wine. “And she’s respectable and we could assist Galatea lands should they need it.”

“Father she’s  _ mourning _ .” Sylvain almost snaps. “Her fiancé died.”

“And life goes on.” The Margrave hisses. His fork spears a piece of cheese and fowl. “Now, mill about when she returns. I do not want to hear from the Count that my son is hanging around his woeful daughter like some vulture.”

The Margrave and Miklan wade away to make small talk with other mourners, leaving Sylvain by the window where Ingrid sat. His stomach curdles with nervousness and hatred. His father also looks upon her like she is a widow, a left-behind possession of Glenn’s and not a victim of the tragedy. He feels rage burn up his core, lighting him on fire. 

How could he abandon Ingrid now? What reasons does he have to, really? Just because it looks bad for her, or because he could get lucky with another mourning woman of court? Or just because she should be mourning and alone? She’s been running after him and cleaning up his messes since she could toddle after him, so why now? Why would he turn tail and run now?

Perhaps his father doesn’t realize that this is the first time in days that Ingrid’s left her room. The first time in days that she was sloughed off the tears and mourning to emerge and pay respects to the dead.

Ingrid returns, the veil still hiding her face. For a moment, Sylvain considers heeding the Margrave’s orders and turning away to flit about the crowd. But her lowered head rises a little, it’s eyelet edge showing a chain of a silver prayer necklace. The veil still hides her face, yet Sylvain knows that she’s staring at him from underneath the gossamer. 

“Here.” Her voice is weak and shaky. Her hands hold out a handkerchief, light green in colour and embroidered with the initials  _ IBG _ . “I snotted yours all up. Take mine for now.”

Sylvain stares at it for a moment. Traditionally, a handkerchief is a sign of adoration, kindness and perhaps even love. It’s a knightly gesture, and Ingrid is the most knightly person that Sylvain knows. Had this been another time, another life, this would have made Sylvain rib her to pieces.

_ Ing, are you trying to tell me something? _ He’d ask.

_ Shut up Sylvain. _ She’d grumble.

He wants to make a joke, to lighten the mood. Something to make her crack a smile beneath that veil, maybe even laugh a little. Goddess above what he  _ wouldn’t _ give to hear her laugh. It’s been too long.

Instead, he takes the handkerchief. 

“Thanks.” He says, folding the cloth and tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. 

The mourners take another turn about the room and Ingrid whispers to him. “I want to see his Highness and Felix.” Her voice is shaky, a sign that she’s been crying again.

“Okay.” Sylvain says, walking her back to her seat. “I’ll be back with them.” He promises.

Ingrid nods, the veil shifting like a shadow as her knees knock back together. Her gaze turns back to his handkerchief in her hands. Sylvain floats through the ballroom crowds and happens upon Felix with his father, Rodrigue. The last two Fraldarius men speak with another nobleman, not one that Sylvain immediately recognizes. He mills about for a moment before the stranger skitters off and Sylvain approach. He makes meagre small talk for a second, and then offers another set of condolences. 

“Thank you Sylvain.” Rodrigue responds. He’s surprisingly well-kept for his losses: Glenn was his son and Lambert, his best friend. Yet he wears mourning like a mask, intangible and unmoving.

“I need to steal Felix for a second, though. Could I?” Sylvain asks as delicately as he can. He uses the same voice that gets the ladies of court all smitten and blushing. The same voice that speaks hollow  _ I love yous _ and  _ you have me by the heart _ s after holding them beneath his tender hand.

“Son?” Rodrigue looks to Felix.

“What do you want?" Felix croaks, his voice thin and sharp. The softness has faded from him, icy walls of hate and distance going up. This is the new Felix, and one that will stay for the rest of their lives.

“Come on, man just a minute.” Sylvain pleads.

“Tell me what you want.” Felix pushes.

“Ingrid wants to see you.” He says quietly. “You know how bad she’s torn up.”

Rodrigue’s brow raises. “Countess Galatea is here?” He asks. “She has finally left her room?

“She came out of her room today. Out of respect for the late King.”

Rodrigue only has to give Felix a look. The boy groans loudly, his arms dropping from their cross over his chest and his hands balling into fists. He kicks his heels like a child while they round up Dimitri, who is much more amenable to seeing his childhood friend. When Sylvain returns with his bounty of boys, Ingrid is speaking with someone, perhaps another mourning courtier of King Lambert.

When he brings them over, he leans down to Ingrid, touching her shoulder. “I brought them.”

Silently, she gets to her feet and reaches out for Dimitri first, holding him tightly for a long moment. She whispers something to him and only him; a prayer maybe, or a trite apology that makes her ache and mourn. 

Sylvain hears him whisper to her;  _ I promise revenge for you. _

She lets go of Dimitri, his hand leading her to Felix who stiffens. Sylvain watches as the boy begins to crumble slightly, as Ingrid takes him in her arms and holds him tightly. Only they can feel the true ache of Glenn’s death. Dimitri and Sylvain are simply outsiders, only spectators on their grief and mourning. Today, and perhaps forever, they are known as Glenn’s younger brother and Glenn’s bride, not Felix and Ingrid.

Even to Dimitri, Sylvain is an outsider. Hell, everyone is an outsider to him right now; Dimitri had seen everything occur and no one can change that, no one can take that back or make him forget. 

Sylvain realizes then, that there is very little he can do for them. He can only hold their hands and handkerchiefs while they cry and mourn and put on a brave face. And that he himself will forever be an outsider to their grief, which they will carry for years to come.

For a brief moment, the four reconvene at the reception. Four of the most prominent houses in Faerghus, the new generation, together at last. Sylvain can’t remember much that happens. The only memory that burns into his mind is Ingrid letting go of Felix’s arm to reach blindly for him again. He remembers Felix biting back tears and of Dimitri calling for revenge under his breath.

Amidst the small talk that’s provided by Dimitri—with a shaky voice and bated breath—Ingrid mentions her horse. How she fled off her faithful steed to come to Duke Fraldarius and Felix to see if it was true. 

“I hope she’s alright.” Ingrid whispers under her breath before Dimitri speaks of the food and how Ingrid will love it. The mourning is replaced with meaningless chatter, with soft words of little value. 

* * *

The reception ends. Dimitri promises to see Ingrid off to her room while Sylvain slips off to the stables to tend to her horse.

Silence follows. The workers have all been given the night off to mourn the loss of their king as well. He doesn’t know the name of her horse, just that it’s white and a girl and has a green ribbon in the mane. He finds her in the last stall, dozing off slightly. He touches the door, clicking his tongue.

“Wake up old girl, I’m here to clean up for you.” He says.

The horse blinks sleepily. Sylvain, ever resourceful, pulls a stolen carrot from his slacks and offers it. The horse wakens, watching his roving hand as he takes her lead and moves her from the stall, tying her lead up so that she’s out of the way. He gives her the treat, tenderly, rubbing her nose.

“Ing misses you, she sends her love.” He tells her as she finishes the carrot. Her eyes blink back to him, looking for another treat. “Sorry, got nothing, hon.” He says, giving her another pat instead.

The horse snorts. Sylvain gives her one last pat before turning into her stable. He clears out the dung and fallen grains, sweeping it clean. He changes out the water that’s beginning to freeze, swapping it for a clean bucket from the trough.

When he comes back in, Miklan is near.

“Sothis above, you’ve got it bad.” He jeers.

“What do you want?”

“Wonderin’ why the hell you’re taking care of the Countess’s horse.”

“She can’t do it. Besides, what’s it to you?”

“You heard the Margrave.” Miklan warns, taking a step closer. The bucket weighs Sylvain down, heavy in his hands. He wants to set it down, but if he goes into the stable he risks getting locked in by Miklan. Suddenly, he wishes to reach for the hoe nearby. It’s not a good weapon but it’s sturdy enough to knock him down so Sylvain can make a break for it. “He doesn’t like you around the Countess.”

“Since when do you listen to Father?” He asks, raising a brow.

Miklan is suddenly close. “Since now.”

“Why? What are you playing at?”

“If I’m to lead House Gautier I need a good wife. She’s got what I want.” Miklan shrugs. “Besides, I like to see my baby brother squirm.”

Sylvain’s hand tightens around the bucket. “What does she have?”

“A Crest.” Miklan snarls. “Same as brat Felix and the Crown Prince. You all have what I want.”

“But Count Galatea already said no to Father.”

“But if I were to sweep Ingrid—“

He wants to puke. He drops the bucket and lunges for Miklan, driving his back into the stable wall. “Don’t you  _ fucking _ talk about her like she’s a  _ possession— _ “ He spits at Miklan.

The elder pushes him back into the dirt. Sylvain scrambles for a weapon, the hoe, the bucket,  _ anything _ to throw at Miklan. “Why? You actually love her?” He laughs, pinning Sylvain with his boot. “Pathetic.”

Sylvain hauls back with his other arm and tries to punch him, but Miklan’s quicker. His fist collides with Sylvain’s nose, crunching something horrible. A spray of blood erupts from his nostrils, surely it’s broken, almost certainly.

“You and your stupid friends all have what I want. And if I can’t have it by one way, I’ll get it another.” He swears before leaving Sylvain crumpled in the stables. He hears Ingrid’s steed whinny and cry out, pacing back and forth nervously. He worries that her hooves will meet his body and snap his bones.

Sylvain reaches for the handkerchief in his pocket. The soft green of Ingrid’s belonging becomes stained with red droplets of blood. He curses to himself, apologizing to her in his mind before holding it to his nose, tender and swollen. He quickly replaces the water and feed, doing his best to calm the horse and removing her tack and bridle.

He tries to clean up his nose as best as he can, but he’s not skilled with white magic in the least. He heads up to his room, up on the third floor. The estate is quieting down, back to it’s normal nightly mourning. He passes by Ingrid’s door, where the chair has been pulled back up. He’d sat in it for many nights before, taking turns talking to her when the Count had left. Her mourning veil is left on the arm.

He passes into his room, hearing her cries through the walls. Sylvain lets out a sigh before removing the handkerchief from his nose. Blood drips out, he puts it back, apologizing to Ingrid in his mind again.

He’s about to take off his Sunday best and pass the hell out when he hears the door open. Not his, but next door. Could she be coming out for a moment? Could he do anything for her? 

He’d cross the Oghma Mountains for her. He’d ride into Ailell for her. He’d face Sreng’s army for her.

He lowers his suspenders, and opens the door slightly. Ingrid’s speaking to someone in a hushed voice.

“ _Listen, I did not ask for this. It’s not a blessing. If I could, I would leave my Crest behind but I can’t—_ “

Sylvain knows who it is.

“Come on, give me a chance—“

“No. Now let me be, please.”

“Why? Do you think he’s worth it?”

“Who?”

“My brother. You really think he’d actually care about you? You’re nothing to him, everyone’s nothing to him.” Miklan says. Sylvain opens the door a little wider, ready to launch himself out and beat the living shit out of him. “He’s a bastard, he cares only about—“

Miklan flies back against the floor, spouting out a cry and a curse. Sylvain opens the door to his room, staring at Ingrid. Her mourning veil is off her face, her eyes red and bloodshot. Her shoulders shudder with sobs, her hand limp and drooping awkwardly. She struggles to catch her breath, shaking and shuddering as she looks back at Sylvain.

“Ing?” He treads carefully. Miklan writhes on the floor, a puddle of blood pooling on the carpet. “Why did you—“

Her eyes glisten with tears; not of sorrow but now of anger. “He spoke ill of you.” She whispers below her breath. Her voice shudders a little as people begin to gather. Count Galatea is the first to respond, touching Ingrid’s shoulder and then glaring between the Gautier brothers. Margrave Gautier shows up a moment later, and the two begin a screaming match. Ingrid steps between the two, warning him of what happened. 

Then, after she’s set the record straight, she returns to her cave-like room.

* * *

Sylvain can’t sleep. He stares at the ceiling. A cleric came to heal his broken nose after a long lecture from the Margrave and glaring daggers between him and his brother.

He goes back out to the stables, letting Ingrid’s horse wander and graze the pastures before returning. She’ll enjoy the night stroll, and besides, they’re too close to town for wolves to attack. It seems as though all of the world has stopped their usual lives out of respect for King Lambert.

He tends to her horse, in the silence of the royal barns; he clears the stall, changes her water that’s beginning to freeze in the cold, replaces her hay and lets her wander the pasture. And when he comes back in at the end of the night, Ingrid has retreated into her room again, the mourning veil left outside her door.

Sylvain returns to the manor, his footsteps as silent as the wind’s breeze. He knocks gently at Ingrid’s door, and sits in the chair, moving the garment to the side. He stares at the blood stain on the carpet. The servants doused it in baking soda and water and he doubts that it will be clean again.

He gives another little knock. A pitiful attempt for attention. “Ing? I went to take care of your horse.” He whispers lowly.

She’s probably asleep. Tired from a day of mourning and fighting. He’s both embarrassed by Miklan and disgusted... But at least he had seen her cry tears of rage instead of sorrow.

“She’s okay now. She misses you, I told her that you missed her too.” He says. “I remember that you told me once to talk to your steed. Make friends with them sorta.”

Silence.

“Ing? I’m sorry for what happened.”

More silence.

“But... I can’t believe that you punched Miklan out like that. No one was expecting it.” He says, almost laughing a little. “He was crying like a baby the entire time we were getting lectured by Father.”

He sits back a little. “Thanks for that. Not that I need you to fight my battles or that you should be fighting them right now.” He says more to himself. “I’m just sorry that he did—“

He hears footsteps shifting against the floorboards. He sits up a little taller. “Ing? You there?”

The door cracks open a little. “Sylvain?”

He sits up, like he’s being called upon in a tutor’s lesson. He sees the edge of her blonde hair, wavy from being coiled in the chignon all day. It barely reaches her shoulders now. He stands up. “Yeah?” 

(He’s surprised at how soft his voice is. He’s never heard it like that, not even when whispering trash to some unlucky girl.)

“Could you come in for a second?” Ingrid asks in a whisper. The door opens slightly.

He glances behind his shoulder. He knows what it would look like if a servant saw him slip in, and he knows that Count Galatea would have his head on the mantle if he catches word of him going into Ingrid’s room at night.

But he catches a glimpse of Ingrid, her eyes welling with tears and threatening to spill over and it crushes all the doubts in his head. He slips into her room, glancing at the crumpled bed sheets and used washbowl. His handkerchief is matted on her dresser, alongside the day’s black dress. She pulls the robe tighter around her body.

“What do you need?” He asks, as gently as he can.

Her chin folds into her neck, her shoulders shaking a little. She’s crying again. He’s not sure how to comfort her, but he rests a hand on her shoulder. She falls into his chest.

“I’m sorry, Ingrid. I really am.” He whispers into her hair.

She stays silent.

“I should’ve come quicker but Miklan really fucked me up.” He says. “I should be protecting you now more than ever.” 

Her sobs silence into his shirt, wetting with her tears. She winces, taking his hand and holding it tight. Slowly, soothingly, he rubs the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb. She chokes on a breath, pressing her forehead into his chest as he lets the other hand smooth down her hair. The waves spring and coil underneath his palm.

He pulls away a little, enough to wipe away her tears gently. A few more fall and he wipes those away too. He’s unused to being so gentle around Ingrid, unused to seeing her cry and be vulnerable. Yet at the same time he is used to it in some strange way. Tending to her, taking care of things, making sure she’s not too upset. 

“I think I hurt myself, Sylvain.”

He’s not sure if she’s talking about Glenn. Maybe she’s admitting that she felt too many things for him; too much, too fast. But his hopes are dashed when she raises her hand.

It’s swollen to shit, her knuckles and back of her palm puffed right up. She holds it by the wrist carefully, watching Sylvain’s eyes.

“I think you did.” He says dumbly.

“It’s too late to call a cleric.” She says.

“Then I’ll take care of you.” 

Ingrid stares at him for a moment and then relents. She holds out her hand with a sharp jut, her eyes to the floor. Sylvain searches the nearby medical kit, which has been sifted through, no doubt in an attempt to heal herself before she called for him. His hands graze the cotton of a tensor bandage and pulls it out. He unrolls it, then searches for an ointment. 

He rubs the ointment into her swollen hand, with a wince from her lips. “Sorry.” He prompt says. “Was that too rough?”

Ingrid shakes her head. “It’s better to feel pain than nothing right now.” She mumbles.

_ Numbness _ . What a horrible feeling. He turns his eyes back towards her hand, gently stretching out her fingers so that he can wrap her hand up. Ingrid bites down on her bottom lip, and Sylvain glances up. Tears run along the corners of her eyes as he wraps her hand up in the bandage. Without hesitation, Sylvain leans forwards and wipes away her tears with the pad of his thumb. 

“Hey...” he says softly. Ingrid’s eyes flicker up. “Don’t cry. Please. I’ll get you a tonic or something, promise.”

“I’m not crying because I’m hurt. I’m crying because he hurt you.” Ingrid promises. She meets his gaze and her eyes are full of angry tears, threatening to spill over. “I am going to give him a taste of his own medicine—“

Sylvain has to hold her back. Ingrid struggles against his grasp, her frail body finding strength once again. His arms clasp around her body with strength, unable to force her back.

He would rather die than hurt her.

He pulls Ingrid back a little further, his hand turning her face to his. “Ing, it’s the middle of the night.”

She meets his gaze. “But he hurt you.”

“And I’m okay now,”

“But he  _ hurt _ you, Sylvain, aren’t you...” Ingrid’s brow furrows. Her voice falls silent as she stares at him.  _ It’s not the first time.  _ She realizes that in the span of a second and stops struggling. She swallows her pride and rage and leans close to him. “If he ever touches you again, tell me.” She demands in a broken little voice.

Ingrid is hurt, but she still finds strength in her friend; perhaps that’s what Sylvain must do.

He lies through his teeth with a sad smile. “Will do.” He lies. “Though...”

Ingrid’s head tilts as Sylvain gives a heady smile. He rests his hands on his hips, leaning down to face the countess. “I doubt I’ll forget Miklan’s wailing like a baby when you punched him.”

Ingrid flushes a little bit.

“His head almost went all around, I thought it was gonna pop off.” He says, with a soft little laugh.

Ingrid fights a smile, covering up a threatening laugh with a sniffle. “It was pretty memorable huh?” She asks and then quickly reverts to her old stoic self. “Lower your voice, someone might hear us.”

“Right, I’ve gotten in enough trouble for today.” 

“Perhaps the rest of the month.” She says before sighing. “Please be good for the rest of it? I’d rather not hear my Father speak about you through the door.”

“He speaks of me?” A shock to him.

“Yes. And all your conquests.” Ingrid sighs.

A little rush of pride and joy runs over Sylvain. He smirks as Ingrid winces. The smile fades in a second. She glances away, back to her wrapped wrist. “Now it really does hurt. I doubt I’ll sleep.” She murmurs.

Then, tenderly, he reaches for her hand. Like a knight, he takes the curve of her fingers in between his grasp and raises the back of her palm to his mouth. His lips gently brush against the bandages along the back of her hand, placing a tender kiss on her injury as if to make it better.

Had this been another time, it might have been admonished; it might have earned a swift punishment and lecture from her. It might have even earned him a slap to the face and a month’s silence and a constant look of disgust and annoyance.

But instead Ingrid only wears a slight blush and wide eyes.

“A kiss to take the pain away.” He says.

“I thought I asked you to behave.”

“Right, right. Sorry.” He apologizes half-assedly. “You alright though? Not going to throw hands in the middle of the night with my brother?”

Ingrid shakes her head. “I’m as alright as I can be.” She breathes.

And with that, the two say goodnight and Sylvain returns to his room. That night, there is only silence between the stone that separates their rooms.

* * *

All returns to as it was the day later. 

Ingrid does not come out of her room to give Miklan what for, as she promised. Instead, she stays inside and through the door tears can be heard again. Sylvain can’t diminish if they are of pain or sadness. 

Count Galatea begs for her to come out sooner, rather than later. He wishes to travel to Fraldarius to pay respects to Glenn for a final time, as they should as almost-family. 

(And in the back of his mind, Sylvain thinks that it is also a ploy to strike a match between the younger brother and Ingrid. He never breathes a word of it to anyone.)

The funeral for the last king comes and goes. Then, a public mourning for the loss of the king’s court, with a specific moment of silence in the quiet of the ballroom for the loss of Glenn Fraldarius.

Ingrid attends that, the mourning veil over her face. Her father holds her arm tightly; her head his bowed. Sylvain cannot take his eyes off her for the moment that feels like ages. 

There’s trumpets and pomp for a knight felled too soon, a knight few knew closely. Sylvain has to admit that he didn’t know Glenn like Felix or Ingrid or Dimitri did. But he can mourn in his own way; silent rage for Felix and Ingrid, for Dimitri, for Faerghus. There’s teary eyes and a candle lit, burning for Glenn, for Christophe Gaspard, for King Lambert and Lady Patricia. For all those who died at Duscur. 

After the wick is burnt to a crisp, Ingrid retreats back into her room. 

Count Galatea pulls the velvet chair back to the door, speaking tenderly into the wood. He begs his daughter to come out, but she refuses to. Days, weeks pass and she doesn’t leave. The Count pleads at her locked door that they must go home to Galatea territory, that they need him and her, that her siblings dearly wish to see their beloved sister again. 

But Ingrid doesn’t leave. She doesn’t even loosen the latch on her door. She’s been there since the Tragedy occured. Someone from the palace brings up food to hers and leaves it outside her door and it slips through the crack; the silverware and china are placed outside neatly.

At least she can still eat. Sylvain thanks Sothis for that from outside her door. Now he sits in the chair outside her room. The Count left to discuss affairs with another member of court minutes ago. He will be gone for a while.

Sylvain raises his hand to knock at the door softly. It rattles and he listens, waiting to hear the creak of a floorboard, the gasp of a sob, anything to tell him that she is alive. 

“Ing, it’s me.” He says. His father warned him that they would be leaving that morning; Sreng has been causing problems along their borders in the Margrave’s absence. “Sylvain,”

As if the mention of him could ease her broken heart. It’s more than that—Goddess knows that Sylvain’s seen his share of broken hearts—this is a shattered soul. 

“I need to leave. My Father said we’re needed back home.” He says softly.

There’s nothing he can do now. He can’t hold her arm and stand by her side. He can’t defend her from his brother. He can’t do anything but say goodbye.

“We have to go this afternoon. I don’t want to leave you right now but—“

“You have to go Sylvain.” 

He sits up in his chair. He didn’t even hear her footsteps. Her voice is close and near, and soft. He leans closer. “Are you there?”

“Against the door.” Her voice is weak and hoarse.

“Ingrid I’m sorry but I have to. I’m so glad you answered me.” 

“You should go Sylvain.” She whispers. “Gautier needs you.”

He stops. “You need me.”

“I do but a dozen lives outweigh one.” Such words chill him to the bone.

“Your life outweighs a hundred Ing. You have to stay safe, for me. Please, promise me.” He whispers.

Her voice is frail and for a moment, he hears her swallow back a sob. “I promise Sylvain.” She whispers softly.

And from his spot in this chair, Sylvain doubts that she’ll ever be the same again. But regardless, he treats her the same as he did before. All he can do is care for her horse and sit by her door with a bittersweet heart, until she comes out. But he knows that Ingrid will never be the same; and that he will love her regardless. 

And when his father says it is time to leave, Sylvain says goodbye to Ingrid through the door. As he speaks, the kiss that he gave her burns his lips and eats him alive.  
  



End file.
